


though snow will melt and memories fade

by NightsMistress



Category: Memory Sorrow and Thorn - Tad Williams
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3728593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightsMistress/pseuds/NightsMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months into their reign, Simon and Miriamele will no longer be haunted by the decisions of their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	though snow will melt and memories fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karrenia_rune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/gifts).



> Karrenia_rune, I'm sorry I couldn't give you Simon, Sludig and Miriamele's Epic Snow Mountain Adventures, but I am hopeful that Tad Williams will give you that next year in the sequel book! I hope you like this anyway.
> 
> Thank you to Morbane who volunteered to read a story for a book series she has never read. You're a hero.

Snow had started to fall in late Octander, and by late Novander winter had settled onto the Hayholt with no sign of it letting up soon. The Hayholt stood as it always had, seeming to shrug off the injuries inflicted on it as a large animal might the scratch of a branch. Though Green Angel Tower and Hjeldin’s Tower had both fallen during the siege, the castle still had a commanding presence in the landscape around Erchester, even while wearing its mantle of crisp white snow and ice. It was a point of proud posturing by the residents in the Hayholt that despite the depravities of King Elias’ rule, the castle itself now stood resolute against the icy fingers of winter. Surely this was a good omen for the rule of their two new sovereigns, that their castle would stand up to winter when the old King's castle did not!

Simon didn’t share their enthusiasm. His ordeal on the wheel meant that when he woke on winter mornings he sometimes had stabbing pains through his joints, like those of an old man. It was a terrible development for one who had barely attained sixteen years. He thought he had succeeded in keeping it a secret from Miriamele, and so was startled when he awoke one morning to find that she had worked the fire up to a great roar.

“You could have told me that you needed this,” she said, her voice a little sharp with annoyance. “This isn’t something you should keep secret from me.”

Simon said nothing, because he would not apologise for keeping it secret from everyone. He was meant to be a knight! Knights in stories weren’t plagued by old injuries, but shrugged them off by the end of the story, or died nobly. Reality was quite different. Instead of shrugging the injuries off, he continued to be brought low by them. How awful, for an injury that at the time had barely stopped him from going forward!

He was not only marked physically by what he had done. He had strange, unfathomable dreams that shredded away from him on awakening. He tried to write them down for Binabik to interpret when he next wrote to far-away Yiqanuc, but he could never find the words to describe the alien, terrible scenes that he saw. Miriamele dreamed sometimes too, waking Simon with her cries to her dead father to forgive her for what she must do.

Every morning, after Miriamele had stoked the fire, they played shent. Jiriki and Aditu had sent a board in the weeks after Simon and Miriamele’s wedding, and Simon had taught Miriamele what rudiments he knew. Their first few games were lopsided, short affairs, with little of the board explored, as Miriamele thought that was how the game was won. Simon began to understand what Aditu had meant when she said that shent was a game for two. They explored more of the board if he supported Miriamele’s efforts, as she was far more bold and daring than he. He learned that when Miriamele was upset, her movements were impulsive and erratic, and that if he tried to match her he would only end the game sooner. It was best to move cautiously.

He wondered whether that was what Aditu had meant when she said that Simon’s moods were reflected in his play. He wondered what Miriamele saw of him when they played. Did she see a thoughtful man, who considered his moves before making them? Or did she see a man too cautious to act decisively?

Ordinarily, they would play for a few hours in deference to the snow's stifling effect on their court, as no one wished to leave their warm chambers to enter drafty corridors if they could avoid it. However, today was not a day for more than a few rounds of shent. This morning they were holding an audience with the lead mason hired to rebuild the castle. Now that the repairs to the castle were almost complete, it was time to consider what was to be done with the site where the two towers had stood. Abhrim had managed, with simple stonework, to create the memorial the two had hoped for to commemorate those who had died during the siege. He should be the first person asked if he could build the library that Strangyeard had designed.

They played while getting dressed for the day. Miriamele combed her hair while skipping her stone over to the Shoal of Dreams. In response, Simon moved his piece to explore more of the board’s sea as he pulled on his breeches. As Simon buttoned the back of her dress, Miriamele secured her squares’ position, and Simon used that to venture further into sea as she used her fingers to tame his hair.

At the end of his turn, Miriamele moved away from him, frowning in profile as she caught part of her unbound hair into a clasp. He took the opportunity to look at her. She’d worn the same clasp at their wedding, he remembered, with flowers entangled in it that fell to the ground during the ceremony. There were no flowers now, no ribbons, just a piece of wrought bright metal that caught the pallid winter sun and reflected strange silver highlights into her golden hair and onto her sky-blue gown. She looked like a character in a story, an impossibly beautiful queen who charted unknown seas and made alliances with unearthly beings she found there. For not the first time since their marriage, he thought _how is it that she married me? Me! Simon from the kitchens._

Miriamele paused, her hands hovering above where she had just clipped her clasp closed, and looked across the board at him. “You’re staring,” she said. Her voice was light, but he could hear the uncertainty woven into it. “Do I look so terrible?”

“No!” Simon shook his head.

“Then what is it?”

“You looked like … like a fairy queen in a story.”

Miriamele laughed, a full throated laugh. She rarely laughed like that, like the woman of sixteen years that she was rather than the daughter of mad King Elias who had been forced to grow hard and aloof to protect herself. It was a laugh that Simon treasured hearing. “I have met Aditu, remember, and I can assure you I look nothing like her.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Besides, I saw the way that you would stare at her. This was different.”

Simon didn’t understand. Where was this coming from? Why was she asking these kinds of questions of him, and what kind of answer did she want? For a moment, caught up in his bewildered frustration, he suspected that he would never understand her or her strange, unfathomable moods. Then he saw her frown, the anxious way that she held her head, and thought he might understand. It wasn’t really about what she was wearing, and how she looked, but instead her comparing herself to a woman older than everyone in the castle and finding herself lacking in maturity and insight. Simon had that feeling himself when considering the Sithi, but it was strange to remember that Miriamele could be as uncertain and awkward about herself as he often felt. Perhaps he was learning to read the sea of her moods better. He said the only thing that came to mind. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen. The most real.”

The anxious tension drained out of her, but she still stared at him, frowning slightly. “Do you often see imaginary women around?”

“No!” Simon could feel his face heat up. This wasn’t how he had wanted it to go at all. “I meant … every part of you is real. Here. There’s nothing imaginary or — or an illusion about you. Everything about you is real.” He stumbled to a halt. He couldn’t find the words to say what he really thought, how he thought that she was far more beautiful than Aditu because she was far more human. Aditu was beautiful, but because of her alienness. Miriamele, however, was beautiful in an organic way, like a flower or a rainbow caught in a waterfall.

“Ah, Simon.” Miriamele sighed. “You’ll never make a poet.”

“I wasn’t meaning to — to sound poetical!” he said, still flushing.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said, reaching across the shent board to rest her hand on his. “I could never trust a poet’s words anyway.”

Simon looked at the window at the bleak weather outside. Though the room was warm, the corridors to the throne room would be cold. “We could stay here,” he said. “Who would say we couldn’t?”

Miriamele looked torn for a moment, following his gaze outside and then looking to the fire. “We could, but we shouldn’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right. Apparently, being a king still meant that you had responsibilities that built up, like dirty dishes in a sink. Simon hadn’t enjoyed cleaning dirty dishes when he had been a scullion, and while being a king involved less soapy water and more responsibilities he enjoyed, he was still obligated to do them at times he did not choose. He sighed and shrugged on a coat.

“You’ll need a haircut soon,” Miriamele observed as they walked down the corridor.

“I suppose I will,” Simon agreed. He could feel his hair curling around his shoulders. It had reached an awkward length where it got into his eyes but was not long enough to tie back into a queue. Simon was not sure whether he could or should grow his hair long enough to wear it tied back as the warriors did. Perhaps it would it be more appropriate if he wore it short, more kingly. He should ask Josua which he should do. This course of action had the advantage that Josua was very far away and so the risk of humiliation was greatly reduced. Simon was very pleased with this idea.

Abhrim was waiting for them in the throne room, having sat down on a wooden chair placed at a comfortably short distance from their thrones of dark wood and silk. The Dragonbone Chair loomed behind them like a terrible spectre, overshadowing the entire room. Abhrim turned around as the door opened, looked startled, and then horrified, as Simon and Miriamele moved inside, and attempted to stand up. He had lost a leg in the siege, and his rise was shaky even with the support of crutches. He ducked his head in apology.

“Begging your pardon,” he said quickly. “I was told to come in.”

“That’s right,” Simon said, and smiled. “Please, sit down. That’s why the chair is there. It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“That it is,” the mason said. Then, quickly, he added,“Your Highness.”

If Simon did not know Miriamele as well as he did, he would have interpreted her face as calm and poised and missed the way that her mouth quirked very briefly as she repressed a smile. “We’ll be starting the audience.”

Abhrim nodded and sat down as Simon had asked. Simon and Miriamele took up their positions

“This is the plan so far,” Miriamele said. She handed the mason Strangyeard’s design. Abhrim studied the plan for a few minutes, conflict evident in his face as he studied the diagram, his heavy brows knitted and his mouth pursed. Coming to a decision, he straightened his shoulders and said, “Begging Your Majestys’ pardon but this plan … it could be improved.”

“Yes?” Simon said. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows propped on his knees. Miriamele had told him that he should not do that, that it was undignified, but when he was interested in something he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps he would always do it, regardless of whether it was dignified or not. “What do you mean?”

Abhrim, uncertain at first but warming to his topic as he spoke uninterrupted, outlined a number of areas where the plan could be improved on. From what little Simon could understand, the modifications were about adjusting support beams and the foundation. Why this was important was not explained to Simon. He nodded and made thoughtful noises at what he thought were the right moments, and hoped that Strangyeard could explain it later.

“That all sounds very interesting,” Miriamele said after it looked like Abhrim had finished. _Hah,_ Simon thought, relieved. _She doesn’t understand it either!_ He felt less foolish now. “We shall think about what you have said in regards to that.”

Abhrim studied the plan, his bottom lip worried between his teeth. Simon thought he knew what the concern was. The old catacombs that stretched under the Hayholt in an intricate maze were connected to the towers. When the towers fell, the passageways had been exposed, though no one who had lived in the Hayholt would go near them.

“Yes?” Miriamele raised her eyebrows. “What is it?”

Under her gaze, Abhrim looked torn, then spoke. “They’re not on here but … what about the passageways under the ground? The ones all them Sithi used? You want them repaired too?”

The fact that Simon had suspected the question would come did nothing to ease the shock of it. He did not feel like a man grown, who had defeated a dragon and brought back the summer. Instead, he felt like a child shying away from a blow that would come at any time. He heard a rasping whisper full of terrible conviction promise him: _we will have it back, manchild_. He knew it was not real. It could not be real. Ineluki was dead. He had seen it done. Yet he was haunted by him. The slaughtered Sithi of long ago, who had died furious at the audacity of the men who had come to steal their home, haunted their Asu’a. As Simon had crawled through the passageways, they had crawled into him.

“No. Seal them.” Simon’s voice sounded flat to his ears. Miriamele’s hand was in his, but it felt as remote as a star. “There’s too much …” He shook his head. It was impossible for him to put into words the way that memory lingered inside the dank passages . “It’s not safe,” he said finally.

“I-it - they can be repaired, if Your Highness wants it to be.” The suggestion was half-hearted, and Simon wondered what Abhrim saw in his face. Maybe the ice that had taken over his face, making it feel numb, was visible to others?

“No,” Simon said. “The stones remember. You don’t know. This is not our castle. We are just the last to be here, and it does not like us.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Abhrim said. He swallowed once, convulsively, eyes darting from side to side. It was very curious to see, and it took Simon a long moment to understand what was wrong because the conclusion was so alien to him. The mason was afraid — afraid of Simon, a mere kitchen boy! What a strange and awful thing, for a grown man to be frightened of the emotions of someone who but for a year ago would have utterly passed beneath his attention. The realisation made Simon feel old and tired.

He had a new appreciation for how much Miriamele had hated her title when she bore it alone.

“Please,” he said weakly, and hated that he did not have better words to use. Abhrim was an outsider despite having family in Erkynland, and had spent years in Nabban. He had only been to the Hayholt during the cold clean winter when no voices whispered from the north. He did not and could not understand. Simon knew this, but did not know what else he could say. “I’m not angry.”

Miriamele, insightful, clever Miriamele, stepped in to Simon’s relief. “We will have to think about whether to seal the catacombs, and will arrange for you to be informed of our decision.”

Abhrim nodded, too quickly, but he seemed less afraid. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “Begging your pardon, your highnesses, but I should go back to my work.”

“Yes,” Miriamele said. “We thank you and will speak with you later about how the work is to be done.”

Once Abhrim had left, Simon let his breath go in a great shudder. Miriamele’s gaze was soft, but also concerned, and even now, under the fear, Simon was able to feel childish delight that Miriamele — his Miri! — would look at him with concern and love in her eyes.

“You were so far away,” she said gently. “Are you here now?”

“Yes.” Miriamele’s hand nestled in his own helped; it warmed the frozen core of fear and allowed his face to move and feel again. He did not know what he would do without her support.

“They were very frightening.” He shuddered now, and Miriamele squeezed his hand. She had not gone into the catacombs either, but she knew enough about them to fear them. She had heard the stories of the Sithi and how frightened they had been after their incursion into the catacombs. She knew that little perturbed such a long-lived species, and could draw her own conclusions.

“We could ask the lector to come and bless them.”

Simon shook his head. He had thought once that High King Elias was deposed and the next king chosen, he would have to be someone good at burying the dead. Instead, it was a skill this king was learning over time. “When Jiriki and Aditu come back, we’ll ask them how to ease their dead. Until then …” he sighed, “we seal them away.”

Miriamele was silent for a moment, studying his face for answers like it was a Sithi Witness. Her hand still stayed in his and her gaze was sharp and bright. “Dear Simon,” she said. “It’s all very frightening, isn’t it? Us being High King and Queen. It’s been more than six months and I still feel like the girl who just killed her father. Do you think we’ll ever be free of our memories?”

Simon considered this. Many terrible things had happened to Simon and Miriamele both to free Osten Ard from what Elias had wrought, and those memories had carved scars into into their souls just as deeply as blades cut into flesh. But without these scars, Miriamele would have been a bird trapped in a cage of duty, her wings clipped by expectations of what a princess was meant to be. It would have been terrible for Miriamele to be anything other than the beautiful, fierce woman who sat beside him.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said finally. “But I don’t think they will hurt as much as they do now.” He touched the scar that ran along his cheek where the dragon’s blood had marked him. “Eventually, it will just be a great story, of how King Seoman the Brave and Queen Miriamele the Clever saved Osten Ard.”

“They call you the scholar king.” Miriamele’s voice was light.

“They haven’t seen my handwriting then.”

“Or your spelling.” She laughed.

Simon was a little stung — his spelling was perfectly good for someone who had learned to read and write at fourteen years! — but the lines of Miriamele’s face had eased and her laugh was genuine. That was worth any momentary personal embarrassment.

“I love you, Miri,” he said, almost too quiet to be heard.

“I would hope so, silly Simon,” she said fondly. “We are married now.” For her, that was all that needed to be said. She had never wanted to rule. Her choosing him, despite knowing that queendom came with it, said everything.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, we are.” 

* * *

 

After the stress of the morning, fortunately the afternoon was free of appointments. Though there would be audiences tomorrow, especially as a contingent from Naglimund was coming to report how the repairs to that fortress were progressing, this afternoon was blessedly free.

He had decided, while Miriamele had resolved the issue of who had title over grazing fields, that all of their work as High King and Queen was presided over by the monstrous presence of the Dragonbone Chair. He was not certain that was a good thing.

He wondered as he returned to the throne room whether Morgenes would have recommended keeping the throne. _Probably he wouldn’t say anything at all, and tell me only I could decide what was right,_ Simon thought. When he had been Morgenes’ apprentice Simon had found his insistence that Simon think of his own answers frustrating, but now he understood why Morgenes had been so firm. How much of his life had been guided by Morgenes. If only he had been here to see what they were doing to Osten Ard! _I wonder if he’d be proud,_ Simon thought.

As he entered the room, he paused for a moment at the sight of the Chair, a sculpture of wired, aged, alien bone. The eye sockets were now cleared of cobwebs, and the toothy maw gleamed. It was not a throne designed for comfort. It was designed for intimidation. It was a symbol of the lie that Prester John had built his kingdom on, of the martyred fisher-king who had died with the dragon.

Simon had not yet sat in the Chair. He had thought about it, after Isgrimmer had left him, on the day where Simon learned exactly who he was and why Morgenes had been so determined to make a thoughtful man out of a mooncalf scullion. He had decided not to. If a splash of dragon’s blood had marked him so thoroughly, he dared not think what the fleshless bones of old Shurakai could do.

He paced in front of the Dragonbone Chair. A decision had to be made about it, he knew. If it were solely up to him, he thought, he would get rid of it. Let others think it was a savagely beautiful monument to Prester John. All Simon could think of when he saw it was how sad it was that the bones had not been reclaimed by the earth where all dead things should go. There were too many haunted things in the Hayholt, in old lost Asu’a, for him to willingly keep another.

But it was also Miriamele’s decision. The Dragonbone Chair was her legacy, created for her grandfather. She had had far too many people telling her what she should and should not do. Simon would not be one of them. He knew that legacy was a surprisingly tangible thing, and his ancestor was long dead, remembered only in old rhymes and stories, and carved into stone. For Miriamele, who had known her grandfather and father, it must be far worse. A handful of years was not so long for the memory of a man to fade, especially if that man was Prester John. A handful of months was certainly not long enough for Mad King Elias’ legacy to fade.

As he turned for the next round of pacing, the sound of shoes scuffing on stone caught his attention. He looked up to see Miriamele framed in the doorway, incongruously dressed in one of Simon’s old shirts tucked into a pair of breeches, her long blonde hair caught up into a loose tail. She frowned. Simon wondered what she was frowning at. She still looked pale and tired and he resolved to bring their court to Meremund in the spring so that she could visit her childhood home.

“Simon?” Miriamele called. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to make a decision,” Simon said. He noticed that Miriamele seemed to avoid looking at the throne, her eyes glancing off it. Simon knew her expression; it was the same expression she had when she woke from her nightmares of her father’s death. He felt like a cruel, crude monster as he went on. “Miri, it’s about your grandfather’s throne. The chair, I mean, not the rule. Do you want it?”

Miriamele made a startled sound of distress.

“No,” she said lowly, finally gazing at the Dragonbone Chair. Her face was pale as milk, and her green eyes were wide and wild as she stared at the wired sculpture of yellowing bones. It was a terrible thing to see. Simon wished that he was not responsible for the fear on her face. “My father would sit there.” Her voice was strained. “He was a good man once, before he sat on that chair.” She took a ragged breath. “It ate him alive, that hideous thing. If only we could burn it!”

Simon hummed tunelessly as he considered what they could do with it. Miriamele was correct about how ineffective fire would prove; it was unlikely that a dragon could be harmed by fire, given that it used to house a fire as hot as a funeral pyre. He wanted to bury it, but too much of the past had been hidden and obscured for them to start their rule by doing the same. The catacombs could not be changed, but he wanted the Chair to be less frightening, and to transform it into something new.

Then the idea came to him, and he laughed aloud. Miriamele stared at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had, but it was an inspired madness that delivered this idea to him.

“We could leave it outside,” he said. “Let the plants claim it.”

“What are you talking about?” Miriamele asked carefully. She stared at him, frowning, and shook her head slightly.

“We can leave it in one of the courtyards, for the children to play on.” The solution felt right to him. It would take time for grown men and women to learn not to fear the Chair, because they understood what it meant. To a child, however, the Chair could become a fantastical climbing frame. He would have loved it as a child, he thought, slaying dragons and giants while avoiding Rachel and his chores. Maybe their future children would, when they were born.

Miriamele’s smile was crooked, though the colour was returning to her face. “Simon, are you really suggesting that we turn my grandfather’s throne into a toy for children to climb on?”

“Yes,” Simon said.

Miriamele breathed a laugh. “Some days I don’t know if you’re clever or a fool.”

“Some days I don’t either.” He grinned, and this coaxed a responding smile from Miriamele as well, as he had hoped. “Maybe that’s why we’re married, so that you can tell me.”

Miriamele shook her head in bemused disbelief. The tension had drained out of her, and she no longer looked like a poorly articulated puppet. She tilted her head as she studied the chair, and asked, “Have you thought of how we’re going to get it into the courtyard?”

“They must have brought it in on a trolley.” Simon emphasised his point by rolling his hand like a wheel. He warmed to the idea. “There should still be one near the great hall; we used it to wheel in additional tables for banquets.”

“Are you sure your trolley’s going to be big enough?” Miriamele studied the chair dubiously. “It is very large.”

“It’s definitely not larger than one of the tables.” Simon weighed up the chair mentally. The marrow may be hollowed out, but he supposed that the bones would be extraordinary dense nonetheless. The Chair was likely to be heavier than it looked, and it looked quite heavy. “I don’t think I can lift it onto the trolley on my own. If you stay here, I can find a guard to help us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miriamele said. “You go fetch your trolley, and then I will help you move it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Miriamele said. “There’s no need to trouble the Erkynguard for this, of all things.”

Simon was dubious about whether they could do it on their own, but Miriamele had that particularly stubborn set to her chin that meant that she would not be swayed from her course. It was his turn to shake his head in bemused disbelief as he went to collect the trolley. It had been getting a lot of use of late, to move in new furniture to replace the old and rotting pieces that had been left after the looting, and it could have been stored in any of a dozen places.

It was, fortunately, in a room that had not been left empty long enough to become dusty. Simon did not want to try and push the trolley while trying not to sneeze. The trolley was a wide, low platform made out of dark hardwood, with a low guard rail around the sides and handles on each side to push it along, its moving parts kept greased. Simon wondered how it had come to this, him collecting a trolley to move a chair wrought out of a dead beast’s bones with the aid of his wife, the queen of Osten Ard. It seemed absurd. Theirs had been an unusual rule so far, but this was one of the strangest things he had done.

He clipped the corner of the stone doorframe with the far edge of the trolley and Miriamele made a face. “We had just repaired that,” she said. Simon scowled — it wasn’t as if he had _meant_ to hit it — and was about to retort angrily that he had not hit it hard enough to damage stone. Then he noticed the tight line of her mouth that meant she was holding back laughter.

He laughed then, and her laugh slipped out as well. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” he said ruefully.

They lifted the chair in a great heave. Simon had thought to take on the weight himself, to spare Miriamele, but the chair was truly heavier than it looked. Miriamele’s support was needed in truth.

Once the Chair was on the platform of the trolley, Miriamele leaned against the side to catch her breath. “I really don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” she said. “But we’re committed now.”

“I recall that it was you who wanted to do it without the Erkynguard.” Simon raised his eyebrows over the arm of the chair at her.

“A champion should accept that his lady is correct in all things, especially ill-considered ideas in the early hours of the afternoon,” Miriamele said primly.

“One day you really must show me where these rules are written down so I can see for myself,” Simon said. “They seem very specific.”

“One day. But we really should move this out of the way.”

“Afraid we’ll be caught?”

Miriamele’s smile was fondly amused. “I don’t think you’re going to get your ear twisted now that you’re the king.”

“You’d be surprised,” Simon muttered darkly. “I’m sure Rachel would try at least once.” He moved toward the back of the trolley and pushed it slightly to gauge its weight. He thought that he might be able to keep it moving, but steering it as well might be beyond his strength.

“I’ll steer and you push,” Miriamele said. “It’ll be easier that way.”

Simon nodded and started to push, trusting Miriamele to use her weight to steer the front of the trolley around obstacles. They were panting and sweating from the effort by the time they had reached the nearest courtyard. It was almost too much for them to lift the Chair from the trolley and leave it on the grass-covered ground, and only the thought of someone finding them while their task was undone was enough impetus to finish the job.

“We really … should … have waited,” Simon panted, leaning against the trolley and blinking away black spots in his vision.

“We’ll know … next time …” Miriamele said, equally wrung out, as she leaned next to him. “Oh,” she added. “We have an audience.”

Simon followed her gaze to the right and saw half a dozen castle servants, male and female, wearing expressions of concern in varying degrees. Simon smiled and nodded, hoping that he looked as dignified as he possibly could in his pair of old breeches and a shirt, red-faced and panting, and was very grateful when the trolley was taken away.

“They shan’t call you the scholar king anymore,” Miriamele said when they were alone with just the Chair. The comment and the sheer absurdity of what they had done caused Simon to laugh helplessly. He was joined after a moment by Miriamele, leaning against him as she laughed.

“We should go back inside,” Simon said once he caught his breath back, catching Miriamele’s hand in his own as they walked.

Once in the archway leading from the courtyard, he stopped and looked back. The Dragonbone Chair, once the symbol of Prester John’s rule, of lies and misinformation, was being dusted with snowflakes. Given time, it too would have its own heavy cloak of ice and snow. Here, it was not a throne. It was merely a chair, an ugly thing that was best left outside where the snow could cover it and the ivy could claim it in Spring. It was not theirs. It would never be theirs, much like how the catacombs would never be theirs, and for that, Simon was grateful.

Miriamele’s hand was wonderfully alive in his own as they inside into the warmth and the light of their castle.


End file.
